Poetry Is Ordinary Language Raised To The

Writing Is Rewriting What You Have Rewritten.

The Sharpest Memory Of Our Old-fashioned Christmas Eve Is My Mother's Hand Making Sure I Was Settled In Bed.

The Years Rolled Their Brutal Course Down The Hill Of Time. Still Poor, My Clothes Still Smelling Of The Horse Barn, Still Writing Those Doubtful Poems Where Too Much Emotion Clashed With Too Many Words.

Without Vision You Don't See, And Without Practicality The Bills Don't Get Paid.

I Can Still Remember The Feel In My Hand Of That Most Wonderful American Coin Ever Minted, A Nickel With A Buffalo On One Side And The Head Of An Indian On The Other. That Nickel Was A Daily Proof Of Our Country's Past. Bring It Back!